First-name Basis
by chasingriver
Summary: Gavin. Graham. God knows what he'd come up with next. It had been better when he just called him Lestrade. At the moment, he didn't care. He buried his face in Sherlock's neck and hung on, barely able to believe he was real. Sherlock didn't pull away from the hug; he stood there, letting Greg press his fists into the thick wool of his coat and squeeze the breath from him.


Beta: deklava

* * *

"Oh, you _bastard!_"

Gavin. Graham. God knows what he'd come up with next. It had been better when he just called him Lestrade.

At the moment, he didn't care. He buried his face in Sherlock's neck and hung on, barely able to believe he was real. Sherlock didn't pull away from the hug; he stood there, letting Greg press his fists into the thick wool of his coat and squeeze the breath from him.

"Why didn't you tell me, you git? Two years! I thought you were dead." _Do you know how much that hurt? Did it even occur to you? _He let go of him and stepped back, fighting the urge to deck him. God, it was good to see him, though.

"You were in danger from Moriarty's men. I had to take care of everything before I could come back."

"And that took you two _years_? Well, Anderson's going to be overjoyed. You wouldn't believe the shit he's been coming up with. Probably won't shut up for weeks." He didn't dare say how much _he'd _missed him. Probably wouldn't understand anyway.

Sherlock gave him one of those inscrutable eyebrow-flicks of a frown and said, "I wanted to…"

"What?"

Sherlock shifted awkwardly. "Well, thank you for clearing my name. It was obvious, of course, but the public can be such idiots."

"Yeah, sure. S'nothing." _Like hell it was; it took months. Worth it ten times over to know you're not dead, though._

"Well," said Sherlock, brightening up, "must be off." In a swirl of coat, he turned and headed back into the darkness.

After Sherlock had walked away, Lestrade let his face fall. _Bastard always knew how to make a dramatic exit. _

* * *

He'd known how to make an entrance, too, five years earlier: a strung-out junkie showing up at his crime scene with information he couldn't possibly know. He'd made himself indispensable, as well as a right pain in the arse. It was easy to get sucked in to the thrill of it all, really. Frenetic energy; deductions plucked out of thin air.

Sherlock got clean after Greg threatened to stop working with him, and the hollow circles under his eyes disappeared. The more cases he gave him, the more he pulsed with energy. He could be an arrogant sod, but it was intoxicating to be around. Greg put up with the sarcastic barbs from his colleagues in order to bask in the glow.

He told his wife about him, going on about Sherlock's brilliance and his failed attempts to get him to join the force, but it didn't go over well. It wasn't long before her polite reception turned disinterested, and later, openly hostile.

"I don't know why you bother coming home if work's so bloody fascinating," she said. She didn't mention Sherlock but it wasn't much of a leap. She started spending her evenings 'at the pub'. That's what she told him, anyway, and he didn't bother to pry. She came home reeking of cigarettes. Smoking had been banned in pubs for a year now; it didn't take much of a detective to work that one out.

He spent his evenings alone in front of the telly, drinking far more than was good for him. It took two months before Sherlock pulled him aside at a crime scene.

"Your wife is cheating on you, you know."

"Of course I bloody well know. I live with her."

Sherlock seemed at a brief loss for words, which came as a surprise to both of them.

"I could consult on some cold cases if you'd like. I don't imagine you have much to do in the evenings."

Greg shot him a filthy look, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than drinking himself into oblivion.

* * *

Having Sherlock back from the dead and working cases again made Greg happier than he'd been in months. It was odd having Molly in John's place, but as far as he was concerned, it was almost a return to normal. And then John was back again, and things could have been just like the old days, if it weren't for Mary.

He was happy for John—clearly he'd found another person who meant as much to him as Sherlock—but Sherlock always deflated a bit whenever John left the room. John was the only person who didn't seem to notice, and no one had the heart to mention it to him.

* * *

"You didn't go to any trouble, did you?" Sherlock said, with an innocent look.

Sirens screamed outside and the thud of helicopter blades drew closer.

"Yes, I bloody well did. I left the goddamned Waters bust to save your sorry arse, and now I'll have to explain why I brought half the force here to help you write a bloody speech. We had them this time! If you've screwed this up, I swear I'll kill you."

Sherlock had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Lestrade let him go and stabbed a number into his phone. "No! No, there was a mistake, call everyone off." A pause. "Yes, I know what I said before, just do it and get back to the bank. I'll deal with this." Digging his way out of this was going to be a living hell.

"This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do."

"Don't talk to me right now, Sherlock."

* * *

Sometime when he hadn't been paying attention—back before John, on one of those nights reviewing cold cases with Sherlock—it had turned complicated.

They'd been staring at evidence photos for what seemed like hours. When he sat back in his chair and let his eyes drift out of focus, he didn't realise he was staring.

"Lestrade!"

He blinked out of it. "Sorry, what?"

"Do you still have the mud sample?"

It wasn't until he was lying in bed (alone, again—who did she think she was fooling?) that Sherlock's image came rushing back, along with a surge of desire he hadn't expected.

"No." He actually said it out loud. "Not happening." His voice sounded desperate in the empty bedroom. _I'm married, we work together, and he's almost young enough to be my son._

He excused himself from the cold cases—he let Sherlock work on them alone. He started avoiding him at crime scenes, limiting his interactions to the strictly necessary ones, and damn it if the bastard didn't pick up on it _(of course he did)_ and make himself even more of a nuisance. A really distracting nuisance.

He tried not to think about him.

He certainly didn't think about pushing him against the wall and shutting up that arrogant, pretty mouth of his. Or stealing back his handcuffs and… yeah. It was best not to think about that at all.

When John came into the picture, he wasn't sure whether to be jealous or relieved.

* * *

"Wakey, wakey!"

John groaned. "Oh, my God. Greg? Is that Greg?"

"Get up, I'm gonna put you two in a taxi. I managed to square things with the desk sergeant." He stared down at them—John was well into the throes of a hangover, while Sherlock seemed barely conscious. He chuckled. "What a couple of lightweights; you couldn't even make it 'til closing time."

John got up off the floor and started shuffling towards the door. "Could you whisper?" he said, with a pained expression.

"Not really!" he replied, far too loudly and right in John's ear.

It was perversely satisfying to see John grimace. He wasn't normally vindictive, but it'd stung when he found out they'd done the stag night without him. After Sherlock's 'death', he and John had gone to the pub almost every week to try and make sense of it all—or get pissed enough not to care. Once Sherlock had returned, of course, all that had stopped. Hell, it had stopped when Mary showed up. With them around, John didn't need him. No one needed him. He'd mostly accepted that, but he'd have liked an invite out for one last drink.

The echoing din of his words in the small cell seemed to raise Sherlock from the dead. He sat up, looking dazed.

"C'mon."

He rose unsteadily to his feet and made a winding path towards the front of the cell. John had gone on ahead.

He got close and Greg winced, the smell of beer and sick all too familiar from his pub days. "You'd better appreciate this. I could have left you in here all day—made your brother bail you out."

Sherlock groaned.

"I don't ask for much, you know. The number of times I've stuck my neck out for you, and what do I get in return?"

Sherlock looked confused: whether it was a function of the alcohol or the personal interaction was anyone's guess. Either way, he didn't answer.

"My name is _Greg_, Sherlock. Make a bloody effort."

As Sherlock stumbled down the hallway, Greg wondered if he was still so drunk that he'd even remember the conversation later.

* * *

It happened again at the wedding. 'Geoff', this time.

Greg had already consumed just enough booze to be more depressed about it than angry.

_He can remember the name of Molly's boyfriend, for fuck's sake._

Poor John; he should have known better than to expect a normal wedding when he picked Sherlock as the best man. Murder followed Sherlock wherever he went, regardless of the social occasion. Greg sat next to Molly and watched the whole reception deteriorate into one of Sherlock's investigations.

When Sherlock figured out the killer, he 'let him make the arrest'. _Convenient, really, having a spare DI to clean up in your oh-so-arrogant wake._ He felt pathetically grateful that he was involved at all. Nothing like being at a wedding with no 'plus one' to really crank up the self-loathing. He stared down at the drink in his hand with regret. _Probably should have stopped with the last one._

He wandered through the crowd of dancing couples. Molly and what's-his-name looked happy enough. She hadn't stabbed him with any more forks. John and Mary looked positively radiant. Mrs Hudson sat off in a corner with Mr Chatterjee, giggling—a little too much champagne, perhaps. The bridesmaids had all made their pulls for the night.

Everyone: paired off in their own little worlds.

Molly swept by him doing some sort of a waltz, beaming. He smiled back, but it only made him more sure: he'd had about as much of this as he could stand. No one should have to endure being single at a wedding.

He made for the exit and burst through it with a muttered, "Oh, thank God." Sucking the cool air into his lungs, he reached for his cigarettes, only to realise he'd decided not to bring them. _Brilliant idea, that was. _He looked around, but no one else was outside smoking—all of them too busy inside enjoying themselves, no doubt. Perhaps he could cadge one off Sherlock. He claimed to have given them up, but if his nerves during the best man speech were any indication, he'd have an emergency stash on him somewhere.

With a resigned sigh, he headed back into the crowds and the thumping music to find him.

His first pass through the building yielded nothing. He saw the bridesmaid Sherlock had been hanging out with getting a drink, and his emotions took a mildly jealous turn he didn't want to examine too closely. He watched as she went back to the dance floor… to someone else. _Oh._

Perhaps Sherlock had escaped up to one of the rooms. Impossible to tell, really. He waited until John and Mary took a break from dancing and approached them.

"You seen Sherlock?"

John glanced around and shook his head, then opened his eyes wide and held his palms down in front of him, swaying slightly. "Sorry, bit much to drink. Haven't seen him. Something wrong?"

"No, I… got the photographer taken care of and I just wanted to let him know," he said. Sherlock would have picked up on the lie, but John didn't. Besides, he just wanted a smoke. It wasn't like he wanted to commiserate with him about being single at a wedding. _Nope_.

"You could use some food, love," Mary said, and smiled at Greg as she dragged John towards the dessert table.

One more pass through the milling crowds turned up nothing. The urge for a smoke receded, but now he was more concerned that Sherlock had done a runner at his best friend's reception. Wouldn't be the first time he'd done something ragingly inappropriate. In fact, it would be out of character for him _not_ to.

He sent him a text.

'_Didn't stick around for the fun?'_

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and went to get his coat. He didn't want to do the awkward 'Leaving Early Goodbye', and somehow he didn't think anyone would come looking for him. It was easier to slip out unnoticed. Besides, what would he say? "It was a lovely wedding, but I'm leaving early because I'm depressed, lonely, and the rampant happiness is making me nauseous." That'd make for a delightful conversation. With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, he headed out the door.

He checked his phone for a reply. _Nothing_. Odd. Usually Sherlock had a biting comeback regardless of the situation.

_'Sherlock?'_

Still nothing. He tried phoning, but it went to voice mail. Nasty images of Sherlock and needles started running through his head. He'd seen the shattered look on his face after he congratulated John and Mary; Sherlock didn't strike him as the type to brood quietly in the face of devastation.

_'You okay?'_

He phoned for a cab, waited for a few minutes, fidgeting, and then headed off at a brisk pace to the town just down the road. He could get one there, and it would be faster. Grabbing the first one he saw, he shoved extra money at the driver and had him head for Baker Street.

_'If you don't reply, I'm coming over there.'_

His phone finally chimed with an incoming text, and he sighed with relief. Then he read it.

_'Sod off.'_

Not the sort of language Sherlock normally used. That settled it—he was definitely going over there.

_'Don't do anything stupid,' _he typed in reply.

There was no answer to that.

"Hurry up, will you?" he said, pushing another tenner through the dividing window. The driver hit the accelerator so fast he was thrown back against the seat.

They pulled up at Baker Street thirteen minutes later. He'd stopped texting Sherlock—there weren't going to be any more replies, he was sure of it.

The windows of the flat were all dark. _Perhaps he's in the bedroom in the back. _He let himself in with the key John had given him when they'd still been meeting up after Sherlock's 'death'. The hallway was dark—Mrs Hudson was still at the wedding—so he flicked on the light and headed up the stairs.

"Go away, Lestrade!"

"Not bloody likely," he muttered to himself. The door to the flat was ajar, and when he walked in, his first thought was that the place had been robbed. The dim light from the street showed books and papers strewn all over the floor.

"Sherlock?"

There was no answer. He flipped on the light, and the state of disarray was even more apparent: it looked like a tornado had ripped through the room.

"Where are you?" He looked into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. The kitchen table and the counter-tops were completely empty. Everything was on the floor. It was covered in broken glass, brightly coloured liquids, and unidentifiable things Lestrade didn't want to think about.

He ran down the hall, trying to find him. _Bedroom? John's old room? _He poked his head into Sherlock's bedroom, but it was empty, and mercifully free of broken glass. He was about to head upstairs when he noticed the door to the toilet was closed. He stopped.

"Sherlock?" he said, quietly.

"Go. Away." There was a faint tremor in his voice.

"I'm coming in; it's okay," Greg said, as soothingly as possible. He opened the door, terrified of what he might see, but there were no knives, or needles, or broken glass.

Just Sherlock, sitting in the empty bathtub with his knees hugged to his chest, still wearing his suit from the wedding, and shaking like a leaf. He turned his face towards the wall and said, "Please, just go away." It sounded like he'd been crying.

Greg scanned the room for any signs of pills or drugs, but he didn't see anything.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay." He inched his way into the room, and Sherlock made no move to stop him. "Are you hurt?" _Stupid question: of course he's hurt. I should have said 'injured'. Fuck._

"I'm not high or bleeding, if that's what you mean," he said bitterly.

Greg crouched down on the tile floor next to the tub. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but he didn't want him to withdraw even further. _Don't say anything obvious or stupid. He's said he doesn't want to talk, so don't ask. Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ He didn't know what to say; it felt like disarming a bomb. His knees started to scream at him—his joints weren't what they used to be. He gave in and sat down with his back against the claw-footed tub. Sherlock was a good foot higher than him in this position, but that was fine—maybe it would make him feel more in control of the situation, and if Greg wasn't staring at him, maybe he'd be more likely to turn around and talk.

He sat there.

And waited.

And waited.

It felt like an age.

"What are you doing here, Lestrade?"

Greg jumped. He'd almost given up on Sherlock saying _anything_.

"I was worried."

"I assure you, I'm fine. You can leave now." He was back to his usual, sarcastic tone.

Greg sat there, unmoving.

"Leave." His voice sounded less sure now, and more like a plea.

"No."

There was a rustle of clothing, and then the muffled sound of laboured breathing. Greg got to his knees and turned around. Sherlock was in the foetal position, head tucked into his arms, slowly rocking back and forth.

Seeing anyone else in this state would have seriously worried him, but seeing Sherlock like this _terrified_ him. At least if he was here, there was nothing Sherlock could do to harm himself. Looking around the room, he saw a small cup sitting on the sink next to his toothbrush. He got up and filled it with water.

"Here."

Sherlock reached one arm out, blindly, but he had to lift his head up to take a sip. Puffy eyes and blotches of red marred his pale skin. He turned away again and handed the cup back to Greg with a small nod of thanks.

Greg sat back down. It was a start.

After a few minutes, he turned to Greg and gave a rueful laugh. "Mycroft was right, you know. He told me not to get _involved_." The last word came out of his mouth like an obscenity. "You leave. You all… leave."

It didn't make much sense to deny it; things would be different now that John was married.

"I'm sure he'll still work with you when he can."

"Not just him. You, Lestrade."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. You're an idiot. You didn't even have the decency to tell me why—trivial deduction, of course—but it would have been appreciated."

"Wait, what?"

"You didn't think I took those cold cases just because I was bored, did you?"

_Oh. Oh, God. _

"Actually, I did."

"Well, that's true, I was. But I didn't have to spend all those evenings going over them with you. I actually enjoyed your company. I got _involved_. I _liked_ you. But then you had to have some sort of sexual crisis and you practically stopped talking to me. You could have just told me you weren't interested."

Greg's mind raced, not sure how to parse what Sherlock was saying.

"Wait. You were… interested?"

Sherlock threw his hands into the air in frustration. Uncurling from his ball, he quickly stepped out of the tub, and was down the hall before Greg could even stand. By the time he caught up, he was in the bedroom with the door shut. Sherlock could hide his face and his reactions in the closed room—if that was what it took to have this discussion, so be it.

"So we just moved this conversation to a more comfortable venue, then?" Greg said, hopefully.

Something hit the door with a soft thud. At least it wasn't glass.

"Oi! Stop throwing things. Why'd you trash the kitchen, anyway?"

No response. Greg sighed and slumped against the wall into a sitting position. It was going to be a long night.

"It was satisfying," Sherlock said after an extended silence. "John's mug—it was sitting next to mine in the cupboard. I didn't want to see it anymore. When I smashed it, the noise and the chaos felt good, so I kept doing it until I ran out of things to throw."

"And then you went after the books?"

"That might have been a mistake," he said, with a tinge of regret. "I shouldn't have creased the pages like that, and it wasn't nearly as satisfying as the glass."

Greg waited to see if he'd say anything else, but he didn't.

"Why the bathtub?"

"Everywhere else was too… big."

_Oh. The reassuring confines of a bathtub. A closed room. Curling into a ball. Defences. Safety. He's terrified._

"Can I come in?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We don't have to talk about anything."

"Why do you want to come in, then? I'm not going to hurt myself, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know you're not, but your floor is uncomfortable as hell." He could care less about the floor, but the comment earned him the small, distracted laugh he'd hoped for.

"Fine," he said with resignation.

The door didn't open properly—it was caught on the pillow Sherlock had thrown earlier. Greg could barely make him out, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest in the corner of the dark room. A neatly folded blanket sat on the end of the bed. He considered trying to wrap it around him, but he didn't want to come off as patronising, so he tossed it in Sherlock's direction.

"Here, wrap this around your shoulders. It'll make you feel better."

"I sincerely doubt it," he said, but he did it anyway, pulling it tight like a substitute for an embrace.

"Look, I'm sorry…" Greg started, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Can you believe it? That he'd do that to me?"

"What? Get married?"

"Well, that too, although I suppose he's entitled to make his own decisions. No—forcing me to be his best man. It's bad enough that he's leaving me, but then he makes me suffer through the entire _celebration_ and pretend like I'm enjoying losing my only friend. Do you know how hard that was?"

At that moment, Greg saw how incredibly, unintentionally cruel it had been.

"He didn't mean it like that, you know."

"Of course he didn't _mean_ it. You didn't _mean_ to hurt me when you stopped talking to me. Mycroft didn't _mean_ to abandon me when he went to uni. But you all leave. Like I said, Mycroft was right. I don't know why I bother."

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I felt like a complete perv, and I thought you'd be disgusted with me if you found out. You seemed to be there for the cases, not the company. Besides, I didn't think 'that'—", he made vague motions in the air, "—was your thing." He gave Sherlock an uncomfortable look.

"It's not, really. It's complicated. I don't want to talk about it right now."

_Of course it's complicated. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes. There's nothing boring about you. _

"Do you want a drink," Greg said, desperate for a change in topic.

"I broke all the glasses. And the mugs. And the flasks."

"There's the cup in the toilet."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but said, "There's Scotch in the front room. Try not to step on any books."

When he came back, he glanced at the empty spot next to Sherlock and looked at him questioningly. Sherlock nodded and he sat down, careful to leave a respectful distance.

They passed the cup back and forth in the dark, making it halfway through before either of them spoke.

"Greg?"

"Hm?"

"When I came back, why'd you say Anderson would be overjoyed?"

"You know—all his theories and everything."

"No, not that. Why didn't you say _you_ were glad to see me?"

_Oh. He picked up on that._

"I didn't think you'd understand," Greg said.

"Oh."

"Wait a minute, you just called me 'Greg'!"

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "And?"

"Well, you're always forgetting my name."

"Do you honestly think I would delete something like that? I only do it to annoy you."

"Oh." He frowned. It made sense, of course. "Well, thanks, you bastard."

"Look…" Sherlock sounded nervous.

"Hm?"

"I'm going to have more time on my hands with John off 'playing husband'. Perhaps we could work on some more of those cold cases."

Greg didn't know how to interpret that, but he decided he didn't care.

"Yeah, all right. Does this mean you've forgiven me?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe." He shuffled closer to Greg—close enough that their knees touched when he relaxed back into position.

Greg wasn't sure what sentiment Sherlock was trying to convey—companionship or something more—but it felt natural and oddly comforting. He reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. "I promise I'll never leave like that again, but you have to promise not to shut me out."

Sherlock seemed to consider it for a moment, then placed his hand on top of Greg's.

"Deal."

* * *

If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm at "chasingriversong"!


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